Tomorrow and Tomorrow and Tomorrow
by GreenWood Elf
Summary: When Loki is married, by Odin's decree, to the plain-faced warrior goddess Sigyn, the Trickster God cleverly exiles his unwanted spouse from Asgard. But years later, with an army of Chitauri behind him, Loki realizes that his estranged wife may be the only one who can help him conquer all of Midgard.
1. Prologue

**Author's Note: **This is my first foray into the Loki-fandom and my happy return to the fanfiction world after taking a six month break to deal with some serious health issues. While it appears that my health is not going to improve any time soon, that doesn't mean I can't be my old nerdy self in the meantime. ^_^

As I mentioned, this is my first Loki-fic. Although I am an enthusiastic (if new) fan of the God of Mischief, I'm still learning the basics of Marvel canon, so any gross errors are my fault and mine alone. Likewise, I am not a native of Stuttgart and although Wikipedia has given me a rough idea of what the Schlossplatz looks like, please pardon any geographical blunders I've made in my prose.

Lastly, the title is a reference to Macbeth's famous soliloquy that occurs in the Fifth Act of the Shakespearean play. While Sigyn herself isn't exactly Lady Macbeth, she will share some of her husband's malicious ambition in this fic. :)

Thanks so much for reading!

**Disclaimer: **I claim no ownership of the characters and storylines associated with Marvel's Avenger comics and film.

**Prologue**

_Stuttgart, Germany_

The couple arrived at the gala twenty minutes after eight. They were casually late and on foot, emerging from the general direction of the Schlossplatz, which was crowded with the usual overflow of tourists taking pictures of the Neues Schloss. On the front steps to the museum they lingered with the other tardy guests, a crowd of lavishly-dressed if not slightly older selection of the museum's dedicated patrons and benefactors. It was a midsummer night. Delicately warm. The air had been thickened with the mingled scent of women's perfume and the deeper musk of the exhaust spewed by the cabs idling up and down the King Street. It would have been unusual, therefore, for any particular person in the mixed throng of gala attendees and tourists to be singled out. It would have been strange, of course, for anyone to notice the discreet couple. In fact, the field reporter who would interview several of the gala's guests the next morning, after _it_ was all over, could only get a single, stuttered sound byte from a shaken lady named Adelaide Gotte.

"I had stopped on the steps…_there_," she would indicate, pointing to a space of brass railing. "I was putting on my lipstick, you know, I was checking myself in my compact mirror and they happened to walk past me. _Them_! I wonder why I didn't realize then. They looked just like us, I mean. How could…how could they possibly not have been human?"

The footage from various security cameras posted throughout the Schlossplatz and one grainy cell phone video agreed with Frau Gotte. The couple was unremarkable, even when viewed from every angle, even when their heavily pixilated faces were printed across the front pages of almost every major newspaper the world over. A man and a woman. A husband and his wife, one assumed, from the way the man gripped his companion's arm as they passed into the museum. There was a suited doorman who showed them in, security for the gala being conveniently low. A few Stuttgart police officers were stationed throughout the square to direct traffic flow. There were no politicians expected at the evening's celebrations, only a smattering of art critics, the museum's board of directors and a select group of patrons that included (the now late) physicist Dr. Heinrich Schafer.

It would be said, later, after _it_ was all over, that the couple had been allowed to walk right into the building. Impudently. Brazenly. Together, they had walked straight through the front doors.

Once inside the museum, the man and the woman threaded their way through the crowded vestibule under the large Impressionistic era paintings that hung on either side of the information desk. Something from Degas. Not his ballerinas. The museum at Stuttgart was well-funded, but certainly not the Louvre.

The bulk of the guests had congregated in the level below the lobby. The caterers were already serving a selection of wine. A stringed quartet played a chamber piece that accentuated the polite, measured chatter of the crowd. No one cared to look at the couple as they descended the staircase to the sunken atrium. No one saw them, of course, until it was entirely too late.

At the bottom of the staircase, the couple paused. The man was easily over six feet. He wore a trim suit, a patterned silk scarf and carried a walking stick that might have seemed out of place if glanced at for more than a few seconds. The woman was also tall and broad-shouldered. She had a blunt face, her coarse hair pulled back sharply from her forehead, not styled, not shaped, but restrained in one long braid. She wore a blue evening gown with a matching bolero jacket.

By the time the man and the woman reached the atrium, Dr. Schafer and his wife were being introduced to the architect who had just been commissioned to extend the East Wing that fall. It was a project Dr. Schafer had expressed enthusiasm for, was even considering funding. Later on, in a few months time, after _it_ was all over, the new East Wing would be unveiled, bearing Dr. Schafer's name and a memorial plaque in his honor. Because what happened that night, in Stuttgart, at the gala, what happened that night was not meant to be forgotten.

The assault was initialized by a serious of quick, planned movements made by the man and his wife. At the bottom of the staircase they separated. She walked around the left side of a roped off statue of two bulls and the man walked to the right. With one deft flick of his walking stick, the man raised the heavy-end of the cane and pummeled the chattering architect. The woman snatched Dr. Schafer's wife from his side and threw her to the floor.

Someone screamed. The stringed quartet did not realize and kept on playing. The man grabbed Dr. Schafer, lifting him up onto the hammered gold surface between the heads of the two bulls. In the coroner's office, the next morning, after _it_ was all over, Dr. Schafer's wife would be assured by the medical examiner that her husband had been knocked unconscious by the blow, that he didn't feel what came next…

"It's his eye you need," Sigyn said. "Barton said the eye."

Loki grinned up at her. "Only the one?" he asked, slipping the extractor from his pocket and clamping it into place over Schafer's face.

Sigyn pretended to look away in disgust as the device dug greedily into the flimsy skin around Schafer's eye socket. As she glanced to the side, she saw Mrs. Schafer whimpering on the floor at her feet.

"We women," Sigyn said with a desolate sort of sigh, "what we endure for our husbands."


	2. Chapter One

**Author's Note: **Thank you to those who read the prologue and thank you, **Guest**, for reviewing.

**Disclaimer:** I claim no ownership of the characters and storylines associated with Marvel's Avenger comics and film.

Chapter One

_One Year Earlier_

The wood shrieked as it gave way under the blow of her axe, the halved log pieces falling on either side of the cutting stump. Sigyn took a moment between swings to steady herself. It was a challenge to ignore the heady trickle of adrenaline as it flooded her veins, leaving her light-headed and gasping. Without thinking, she reached for the pouch hanging around her neck, but the waterskin had already been emptied

_Damn._

She had never felt so useless.

The air was hard with the midwinter cold, the stand of elm trees providing a superficial shelter from the high winds that raced down the hills and into the basin of the quarry. Her deer-hide cloak, the only fine garment she had bothered to keep after leaving the royal court at Asgard, pulled at her aching shoulders. Inside her wool tunic Sigyn's body had shrunken. Winters in Vanaheimr were long and plagued with scarcity. It took a good deal of effort to chop enough wood to keep even her small dwelling warm.

For not the first time, Sigyn was reminded of the peculiar torment of exile. She wasn't a prisoner, exactly, having no jailers or guards to keep her locked away. She was simply alone.

_Damn. _

_You _are _useless._

A hard frown deepened the lines on either side of her mouth. Sigyn thrust the handle of her axe into her belt and gathered as many halved logs as she could carry. With any luck, she would have enough kindling to see her through the darkest watches of the night. By dawn, however, she would have to fetch more.

And the night sky was always at its blackest before sunrise, wasn't it? And the wind always seemed a little fiercer in that eerie space of time, when neither the moon nor the sun were high enough to see.

Sigyn grunted, struggling to balance her bundle of wood. It was midwinter now, she reminded herself. Spring couldn't be _that_ far away.

She followed the narrow trail out of the elm thicket, which was not very deep nor very dark. It wasn't a place Sigyn was familiar with, although she had been both born and raised in Vanaheimr, and her dwelling even now stood on her father's old estate, a section of a shale quarry that she had not ceded to her husband's family as part of her dowry. The land, unfortunately, was without much promise or beauty or use in this particular region. Shale deposits had made the soil resistant to any farming, and the only vegetation that grew on most of the stony hills was a hardy, reddish heather that bloomed in angry little tufts here and there. Although she lived alone, Sigyn had had to rely on the grain stores sent to her from Asgard by Frigga, who seemed to be the only member of the royal family who remembered that Sigyn was still, by marriage, a Princess of Asgard. Not that she cared much for her title. Not that she cared much for anything at all…except _him._

Grane was waiting for her at the end of the trail, his neck lowered as he searched for the stray bits of dried grass that had managed to poke through the soil. The gelding was a docile, yet dependable mount, a light draft horse who stood at a little over fifteen hands, with a bay coat that had grown shaggy to withstand the winter's chill.

Back in Asgard, Sigyn knew that Grane would not be considered suitable enough for a member of the royal family to use even as a hack, but he had served as her constant and much beloved companion throughout the years of her exile, exhibiting a quiet nobility that she cherished.

She took a moment to arrange the logs she had collected on the two-wheeled cart she used for her meager hauling trips. The wood was strapped in place with hemp ropes, but the cold had already weakened Sigyn's patience, and she did not bother to check the fastenings twice. Besides a worn harness, Grane's was broad back was bare and Sigyn settled herself onto the familiar, comfortable space just behind his withers. Her hands, although gloved, sought out the warmth of the animal's body and she curled her fingers around a thick strand of wind-tangled mane.

Grane was all she needed, she thought, trying to ignore the deep, unshakable anger that had begun to feed off her pride. Sigyn knew she had never been as strong as _him_, which was why she was in Vanaheimr now, alone, exiled. Forgotten.

She hissed, her hot breath stinging her cracked lips. Sigyn was weakened by thoughts of just _who_ she was missing. It wouldn't have been so bad, really, if she hadn't cared for _him _so much. If she hadn't loved _him_ so much.

So desperately…

_Damn._

Her heel's touched Grane's flanks, the horse jerking forward, her hooves ringing against the hard, stony ground. And the echo that reached her, the voice that laughed back, was brittle and mocking.

* * *

Sigyn's dwelling had been converted from an old hunting lodge set just above the shale quarry, on the lee side of one of the stony slopes. It was a squat, square structure with heavy wooden walls and a pitched roof insulated with straw and horsehair. The lodge itself had only three rooms, aside from the outbuildings, which included a four stall stable and a stone well housed in a shed. Sigyn herself had added a small paddock next to the stable, where Grane was put out to graze on the tough patches of heather during the summer.

Approaching the structure from the road, Sigyn found herself squinting against the cutting light of the winter sun. The gate in the front yard had been blown open by an errant gust. Immediately, her spine stiffened. The gate was old, but it could still be latched, and Sigyn never left her dwelling without pulling it closed behind her. She drew back on the reins. Grane stopped.

Someone was in her house.

With her free hand, Sigyn pulled her axe from her belt. It wasn't a weapon, the handle worn smooth which much use, the blade nicked and notched in too many places. She was not armed, nor had she been granted the privilege of carrying any weapons when Odin exiled her from Asgard, stripping her of what little strength or magic she had to defend herself. Sigyn's heart was a jagged lump in her throat as she watched the gate swing back and forth in the wind. There was a chance, she suddenly realized, that she might die alone, now. And there was a chance, she suddenly realized, that she would not get to see him again, not that he had ever wanted to, not that she had ever been able to…

_Damn. _

Then it happened, or two things happened, at the same moment. A raven, who had apparently been nesting in the lodge rafters, dropped into the sky, his wings beating against the biting air. Sigyn jerked her head to the right to watch the bird fly, and as she did, someone called her name.

"My lady Sigyn!"

It was not meant to be a greeting, that she knew. Sigyn moved quickly. She pitched herself to the side and took shelter in the tight place underneath the cart. As soon as she hit the ground, she was accosted by another raven, the bird standing in the small space beneath the Grane's forelegs. Sigyn recognized the raven at once, her blood thrumming with apprehension.

_Huginn._

One of Odin's birds. His spy. Which could only mean that she had run out time and that she had run out of luck. The Allfather had never forgiven his daughter-in-law for her treachery of years past, and he had permitted her to live in exile only long enough to weaken her. She could be killed, now that she was cowed. She could be destroyed after, yes, only _after_, she had been thoroughly punished.

"My lady Sigyn!"

Sigyn recognized the voice calling to her again as she crouched like a coward beneath the bed of the cart. Even her fear of death could not outmatch her own self-loathing. She would die in shame and _he_ would then be dishonored, which Sigyn could not abide. Although exiled, although all but forgotten, she was still the goddess of fidelity, and more importantly, she was _his_ wife.

_Damn. _She had to try.

From her hiding place, Sigyn noticed a pair of booted feet approaching the cart. She had only seconds. Glancing about, she noticed the loose knots she had tied in the hemp ropes, the weight of the firewood straining against the fastenings. As quick as she could, she slid her hand all the way down the shaft of her axe. One quick blow severed the ropes. The lashings snapped and gave way. Logs rolled wildly down the road. Her attacker cursed, stumbling on the loosed firewood.

But the sudden noise and hectic crash of the logs had spooked Grane. The horse reared, unbalancing the cart. Dazed, Sigyn glanced up just as the cart began to tip. She would crushed by the weight, if she didn't move. She was going to die by her own hand if she didn't get out of the way…

And then he reached for her, his fingers fisting in the hood of her deer-hide cloak. Sigyn cried out as her attacker pulled her from underneath the cart just before it fell. More logs rolled free, smacking her legs. In his panic, Grane snapped his tracings and ran towards the stables.

Sigyn lay on the road, her cloak muddied, her axe lost, crushed beneath the overturned cart. She was flat on her back and helpless. Thor towered over her.

"Sigyn!" her brother-in-law muttered, one hand still gripping her hood. Behind him, the sun had drifted into a bank of clouds. Snow fell.

It was over now, Sigyn thought vaguely, with a strange sense of relief. A few small, wet flakes landed on her face and cooled her flushed cheeks. It was all finally over…

She managed a tight smile for the Prince, although her voice cracked pitifully when she tried to speak. "Your brother well never forgive you if you kill me," she said, even though she knew it wasn't true.

"No," Thor shook his head. He paused, and then added, "Loki is dead."

* * *

**Author's Note:** The name of Sigyn's horse, Grane, is also the name of the Valkyrie Brunhilde's horse in Richard Wagner's "Ring Cycle" operas. According to the "Volsunga saga", the horse (named Grani) belongs to Sigurd and is a descendant Sleipnir. So yes, that was my attempt at an inside Loki joke. ;)

Thanks so very much for reading! The next chapter will be posted soon.


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